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Fetish
It didn’t take long for me to realize that something was amiss. Usually, nobody would suspect me, the quiet little bookworm, of having so many creepy little (though I regret to call them this) fetishes. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that such things were “wrong”, it’s just that I didn’t think any harm could be done if I just thought about them and didn’t act. Only one part of the whole thing began to worry me. I used to separate what I’d do to soothe my hormones and what I did to soothe my mind separately. Then I found myself disgusted when I noticed what the combination of both did to me. It scared me, and eventually, that fear grew into excitement. Soon, this became my little piece of paradise. I knew it was sick, but letting my imagination roam was completely harmless, right? I remember just falling back on my bed behind a locked door and letting my hand slip between my legs, finding a fulfilling satisfaction as I closed my eyes and let my fingers tease around wet panties. This wasn’t too different from what I had done as a teenager, but however what was on my mind was quite different. I used to think of the boys I wanted to lure into my bedroom but was always too shy to. I even had the occasional fantasy of women I admired, not that I’d ever tell them about it. But this? This was different. My imagination transformed my room into a dusty and dark place with bloodstained sheets. In fact, the coppery scent of blood overtook my senses for a moment, only to cause me to snap back to reality. When I opened my eyes, the smell was gone. I always did have a powerful imagination. This continued for a few more months. Every time, the thoughts got more and more vivid. Once I was past finding something disturbing, I would embrace it and it would become a new nasty little thing that I could get off on. I only shook myself from one thought that kept returning. I kept mutilating my lover. I remember in that repeating thought, I had his wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts. It was just a normal daydream of an “adult romp”. That is, until I started stabbing him in non-vital areas of the body. I usually snapped out of it at that point, yet that sick little part of me wouldn’t let me go. I carved my name into his chest as he screamed in pain, his cries muffled by nothing other than my left hand. Though he struggled and flailed, I only stayed where I was. No amount of what he could do while bound would buck me off. I admired my work, removing my left hand from his mouth. Of course he began to accuse me of being a crazy bitch. I refused to hear it all. I grabbed a pillow and held it over his face until his body quit thrashing. He had lost consciousness. I tossed the pillow aside and looked down to him. He looked like he was sleeping. He looked so peaceful. Normally something like that would warm my heart, but there was something wrong… He wasn’t smiling. I drew my knife across his mouth, carving a smile into his face. He woke as I was just finishing, screaming and thrashing all over again. Oh, I wanted to look at him. I wanted to see that pretty smile. I wanted to see my name and the way that it marred his perfect white skin… But he wouldn’t let that happen. I kissed his bloody mouth, and the last thing it did was soothe him like it used to. He cried and I licked away the tears. The tears and the blood mixing only made my heart race. It was like I was in love for the first time. I opened my eyes this time. I opened them and then I saw that it wasn’t my imagination anymore. I pulled my mouth from his and stared down to him. Tears continued to streak his cheeks and the fresh wounds I had left on his face were still bleeding. My heart was throbbing in my chest and I drew my hands up to my face to gasp in shock. It wasn’t my imagination. What about all of those other things I dreamed up? Had I done those, too? I stared down into those accusing eyes. I could hear him trying to say something, but he was too hoarse from his screams to even speak. For some reason, I felt no regret. I knew I SHOULD, but I didn’t. A grin began to creep over my face. I felt the corners of my lips being tugged at, even though I knew this was no time to be smiling. Still half-naked, I leaned over him only to whisper sweetly, “Baby, you’ve made me so happy.” Afterwards, I curled my arms around him to sleep. I don’t know what made me do that. I don’t know if I really cared at the time or if I was happy with what I turned him into. He was mine, now. Even if he got away from me somehow, I don’t think anyone would want him now. We had broken up a few times previously and I knew that he had seen other women, but who would want him now? I’d still want him. I kept him tied down and I kept feeding him and giving him water. He refused the first few times, but eventually, he just let it happen. He caved to my will. I told him what a good boy he was, and he only sobbed and kept repeating one phrase. “Why, Cassie? Why?” Soon, his friends had realized that they hadn’t seen him. They must’ve known something had happened. When they arrived, they realized how weird I was acting. They shoved past me, only to find him in the state I had left him in. I knew that I was officially fucked. That’s how I got where I am now. I’m in a mental institution. I never heard from Jason again, but now I have other focuses. I close my eyes and my fantasies come to life. I’m actually quite happy this way. I only regret one thing. I wish I could taste the combination of blood and tears again. Category:Mental Illness Category:NSFW